


Hold my Heart

by ashmeera101



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-30 07:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5155595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashmeera101/pseuds/ashmeera101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of the growing relationship between Fenris and Indra Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I was going to go back and edit something and ended up deleting the entire fic. Typical Meera. This is a repost of the first three chapters that were here before. I'm sorry about the blunder.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric talks to his friend about a certain somebody.

The Hanged Man was packed almost to the walls tonight, the din of the crowd and the music almost loud enough that you couldn’t hear yourself think. You could hear it from Varric’s private rooms, even through the closed door. It had been torture to order drinks, and mercifully they’d rolled up a barrel of mead just for him. Well, for him and Hawke that is.

He’d lured her to Lowtown on the pretense of discussing business but in truth, he’d missed his friend. It had been almost a year since the Deep Roads expedition, and since Hawke had moved up to Hightown. He was truly happy for his friend’s success, but he worried for her all the same. Her brother had joined the Templars while they were gone, and Hawke’s mother was beside herself with despair. Carver at least had the decency to promise that the Order wouldn’t come near his sister, which was a small relief. Carrying the name Hawke was not getting any easier, and he worried if she was able to cope. 

She arrived on time, as was her custom. Dark circles lined her eyes, but she was as friendly as always, cracking a couple of jokes with him as soon as she walked through the door. He smiled at her now, watching her nurse a mug of ale as she watched the fire. They had cleared up business rather quickly and had indulged in idle chatter for a while, but now they sat in content silence.

“Varric, can I ask you something?” she asked suddenly. He took a sip of his ale and nodded.  
  
“Anything you need, Hawke.” He noticed how her cheeks reddened slightly as she stared pointedly at her tankard. It couldn’t have been the ale, he thought, she’d barely taken a sip. Whatever it was, it must be damned well important if it was making his friend blush. _Nothing_ made her blush.

“What do you think about Fenris?”

Oh. They were having _this_ conversation, were they?

Her voice was soft, almost unsure. Varric would’ve pushed it on another day, but he played along.

“Broody? I’ve got a lot of thoughts on him. For one, I can’t fathom how he’s still living in that mansion up in Hightown. Aveline’s up to her breeches making sure he goes unnoticed, but people are beginning to talk. Not to mention the fact he owes me half a dozen pints, but I’m willing to let that slide.” He rambled, but kept an eye on his friend. She seemed to listen, nodded at the right times even, but he knew that he wasn’t answering her question. So he stopped, took a gulp of ale, and changed tack.  
  
“Hawke?”

“Hmm?”  
  
“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”  
  
“Of course.” Her chuckle was genuine at least. “What would I do without my trusty dwarf?”  
  
He winked at her before continuing. “So you won’t mind me asking you this then?”  
  
“Depends. Is it about the coin I owe you?”  
  
“No, though thanks for reminding me.” He leaned across the table, dropping all pretence. “You _like_ Broody, don’t you?”  
  
Her cheeks darkened as she avoided his gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play coy with me, I know why you asked about him. I’ve been watching you two.” He leaned back and folded his arms. “You dance around each other every time he follows you, and the whole ‘polite awkwardness’ only makes things uncomfortable for the rest of us. Not to mention you’re actually terrible at flirting. Almost as bad as Aveline, I’d say.”  
  
“Come on, I’m not _that_ bad.” 

“So you admit it then?”  
  
She froze. There was a silence as she searched for an excuse, but he knew he had her cornered. After a long while, she sighed and ran a hand through her hair.  
  
“Maybe.”

Varric couldn’t help a grin. “Hah! Knew it." 

She was beginning to smile as well, though not the smile he was used to. This was softer, more like the type of smile he’d write into his romance serial. Come to think of it, he’d seen her wear this smile before, but only ever around the elf in question. Oh boy, she _was_ in way over her head.

“I was going to ask you for your advice, actually,” she eventually said. There it was again, the uncertainty. Hawke was always direct in everything she did, be it work or otherwise. This was different, though. If she was going to go forward with whatever it was she wanted with the elf, he needed to let her know what he thought. He owed her as much.  
  
“Hawke, I’ve told you this before. He’s prickly and not altogether the nicest person. You don’t agree on a lot of things, hell I’m surprised he hasn’t lyrium-ghosted Blondie for going on about mage rights. I’m sure he’s tempted to though. That elf’s got a lot of issues that need sorting.”

Her eyes grew guarded as he spoke, but before she could say anything, he continued.

“But despite all of that, I’d say go for it.”  
  
“Wait what?” She looked at him, puzzled now. He took a deep breath, looked her square in the eye and spoke.  
  
“You don’t see it, but he’s in too deep as well. He doesn’t say much, but he’s always the first to your side if you’re hurt, the last to stop fighting if you’ve gone down. And Maker, the way he looks at you when he thinks nobody’s watching. He’d walk right back into the Imperium for you, even if it means risking his freedom. Not a very healthy sentiment, but it’s there." 

He watched as Hawke’s gaze softened once more, her tightly laced fingers relaxing around her tankard. He wondered if she had known that the elf felt the same way; she was prone to be a little obtuse when it came to the emotions of those around her. Heck, it had taken a good couple of months before she realised that Varric himself considered her a friend, and that was after he had to spell it out to her over drinks.  
  
“Are you sure?”

“Hawke, have I lied to you before?”  
  
“Varric Tethras, are we really having this conversation?”  
  
“Touché.” He couldn’t help but smile at her because he recognised the same look in her eyes as what he’d probably worn many years ago, when he was young and foolish and in over his head. Shaking his head to rid himself of the memories, he folded his arms once more and looked at his friend.

“You care for him.”  
  
Another sigh. “Is it that obvious?”  
  
“Aveline didn’t realise until I told her. Only Daisy and I knew for certain, though Isabela’s beginning to get the hint as well.”

“But… how?”  
  
“I’m a writer remember?” He tapped his nose knowingly. “I notice things. And Daisy… well let’s just say she’s very observant as well.”

They sat in silence for a long while, until Hawke finally spoke.

“I _do_ care for him,” she said slowly, softly, as if the words were a surprise to her. Her eyes were tentative as she met his.  
  
“I know Hawke. But just… be careful alright?” _Don’t get your heart broken._ He almost said it, but he didn’t want to jinx the whole blighted thing.  
  
She smiled at him, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.  
  
“I will. Thank you, Varric.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is confusion, but also a conversation. Hawke also contemplates throttling Varric. (She doesn't.)

Hawke tapped her foot nervously as she hid in the shadows close to Solivitus’ shop. The mage had forgotten his list and had left her to go find it. So she remained, alone and surrounded by Templars. Some of them, like Cullen and Thrask, nodded at her as they passed, and by courtesy alone she acknowledged them. With all the others, she shrunk back into her corner and avoided eye contact, letting the shadows cloak the silhouette of her staff. 

The Gallows never failed to bring up a certain anxiety, despite the fact that her status now gave her protection over and beyond what even Meeran offered. No Templar would touch her now; they couldn’t afford to. She had audience with the Viscount and held the Arishok’s respect, though the latter was probably not a very stable alliance. Still, her heart rose to her throat every time she stepped into the imposing courtyard. Whatever standing she had now might not last in the future, and she could very well end up like Solivitus.

And there he was now, running frantically down the stairs from inside the Gallows. He passed her the list of items, gave her his usual instructions while trying not to breathe too heavily, and bade her farewell.

As she strode quickly across the courtyard, towards the docks where a ship would be waiting to take her to Kirkwall, she noticed a small group of Templar recruits huddled by one of the pillars. It didn’t take much to find her brother; his dark skin and braided hair made him stand out from the others, more so than even his height in this case. She wouldn’t have called out to him, content to just pass them by unnoticed, but she saw one of the recruits nudge him, pointing her out with a mix of fear and awe in his eyes.

Carver turned around and met her gaze briefly, enough for her to see that his eyes still burned with hurt and anger. She sighed and shook her head at him, before looking away completely, walking past them before the defeat in her heart overwhelmed her. 

Giving Carver their father’s letters had set off a spark in him, and at the time she was truly happy that he had found something to be enthusiastic about rather than griping about every little thing. She had hoped however that it wouldn’t have been something as dangerous as this.

And now he was a Templar himself.

So yes, she was still bitter about the whole thing. Happy as she was that he had finally found a calling, the way he had dropped it on both her and her mother seemed more out of spite than anything else. Even now, months after the whole fiasco, was he still not over everything? She sighed even as her fists tightened at her sides. As much as she loved him, he was a truly unbearable tit of a brother, if she were to borrow Aveline’s words.

By the time she had reached the archway leading to the pier, she had managed to calm herself down a little. There were things to be done and waiting for Solivitus had made her late for the rendezvous with her friends. The sun was touching the peaks of the Vinmarks, and it would have sunk beyond that once she reached Kirkwall once more. Thankfully, the ship had already docked at the Gallows; she could see the sails fluttering gently in the wind as she walked down the grand stairs. What she didn’t expect was to see a familiar white-haired figure walking up the stairs towards her.

“Fenris?”

“Hawke.”  
  
“What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean? Varric said we were to meet here.”

“Wait, Varric said what?” And then it sank in.

Oh, she was going to kill that dwarf.

“He must have been mistaken. I said to meet at the docks, not the Gallows.” Before he could say any more, she shook her head and motioned towards the pier. “Never mind, let’s get back on the ship. They’ll be waiting for us.”

She had asked Varric to tell both Fenris and Merrill to meet them at the docks. What she hadn’t thought much about was the shit-eating grin that Varric had on his face when he agreed, but now as she remembered it, she was quite sure that he was the one responsible for this.

Was this Varric’s way of giving them time alone together? If it was, she was beginning to regret speaking to him the other night. He might have taken it upon himself to stick his fingers into pies he really shouldn’t.

But then again, she thought as she watched the Gallows grow smaller the further the ship drew away, they were _alone together_.

She turned to Fenris, watching how the sea breeze ruffled his hair as he leaned against the rail. His shoulders were not as tense as they normally were, and his face carried an aura of serenity. Maker be damned, just the sight of him made her heart thump a little harder as if she were a love-struck fool. And perhaps she was.

They didn’t get much time alone, save the occasional visits she paid to his mansion. He was often away on mercenary jobs when he wasn’t following her, and when he was, they were either knee deep in blood mages or slavers or some other grisly situation that didn’t leave much time for conversation. But now when they were actually alone, she found herself tongue-tied, unable to think of anything to talk about.

Fortunately, Fenris solved her problem for her.

“Hawke?” She was startled out of her thoughts by his voice. Turning to him, she noticed the concern in his eyes.  
  
“If I may ask, what were you doing at the Gallows alone?”

“I had to see the Formari herbalist. It was a small matter, nothing worth dragging a group all the way across the city for.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You may be safe for now, but an apostate walking into a fortress full of Templars is never safe, not even you.”

“I can handle myself,” she said with an ease that belied her confidence.

He snorted and looked out to the sea. “You may think yourself capable, but I have seen how the Templars here treat their mages. It is definitely better than the alternative, but I cannot help but wonder…” He turned back towards the Gallows, and she followed his gaze towards the great bronze statues of slaves, hands covering faces, backs hunched in an endless grief. 

She thought back to when Fenris had first stepped into the Gallows. He had begun to trail behind their company, finally coming to a halt as he looked at the statues towering over them, shackled and humiliated and at the mercy of the stone slavers that held their leashes. His expression was unreadable, but she could only imagine the memories and emotions he was reliving.

“It must have been terrible,” she blurted out despite herself. When he turned to her, eyes questioning, she shook her head. “Tevinter, I mean. I’ve seen the way you look at the slavers and blood mages we’ve fought in the past. We don’t always agree on certain things, but you should know that I do respect you, and that I understand where you’re coming from.”

“I… thank you, Hawke.” His eyes had grown soft. “Not many mages would leap up to defend me against their kind, and yet you allow yourself to see my side.”

“Well, in that case I think I should be thanking you.” She looked at her hands then, flexing the calloused fingers slowly. “Your tales of the Imperium have made me reconsider my own opinions. I’ve never heard much of the Imperial Circles, but I do believe that blood magic is inexcusable, regardless the cause. To think that it is so widely practiced in Tevinter, despite the risks that it so clearly entails makes me wonder if they are as wise as they claim to be.”

Fenris looked incredulous as she paused, choosing her next words carefully.

“There is also the fact that magic has torn my family apart. My brother always resented the time my father spent teaching me and my sister. And now he’s a Templar, the very creed I seek to avoid at all cost. Maybe you’re both right about magic. Maybe it’s ultimate purpose is to tear down and conquer. I know I am an apostate, and I cannot bring myself to sing the Circle’s praises, but how do I know that I won’t succumb to the same lows as any magister?”

“No,” he said suddenly, his voice forceful. She looked to him in confusion only to have him shake his head, a sheepish look crossing his face.

“I apologise. It’s just… it seems naïve of me to say this, but you are different. You have shown a strength of character I have never seen in any magister. You have only ever used your magic for the benefit of others, to defend and protect, never the selfish reasons that _they_ use to justify their experiments.” His fingers traced the markings on the back of his hand subconsciously. “I do not think you would fall to the same temptation. You are far too exceptional.”

He trailed off at the end, as if realising what he had said, and she could feel the warmth creeping into her cheeks.

“Is that a compliment?”  
  
He smiled crookedly, only half looking at her. “Perhaps. Again, I am not very good at this.”

“Well then, practice makes perfect.”

They both laughed softly, unable to meet each other’s gaze. Hawke gripped the sling of her satchel tightly as she looked ahead, focusing on the fast approaching docks instead of the racing drum of her heart. His hand rested on the rail next to her, close enough to touch, and _Maker’s breath Indra what are you even thinking?_ So focused she was on her inner voice that she almost missed what he said next.

“What I was trying to say was that it may be best to bring somebody along the next time you wish to visit the Gallows.” He cleared his throat nervously, watching her with caution as he spoke. “I would be glad to accompany you in that case." 

 _Oh_. Well then.

She smiled at him, unable to still the growing warmth in her chest. “I might just take you up on that offer.”

The ship was approaching the docks now, and Hawke could see two familiar figures standing by the pier, the taller one speaking animatedly to the shorter. She slung her satchel over her shoulder and turned to Fenris, the smile still on her lips despite herself. His hair had fallen across his eyes, but his voice was gentle as he spoke the words she was so accustomed to hearing, just as the ship bumped against the stone pier. 

“We should move on.”

(She buys Varric a pint that night.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferelden festivities and some not so fancy footwork.

Kirkwall was already bathed in darkness when Fenris stepped out of his mansion, despite it being early in the evening. Winter here was unlike the short dry spells in Tevinter and Seheron; here it was biting, the wind carrying a chill that sank to your bones, clinging even when you’re wrapped in three blankets and huddled as close to the fire as possible. His feet had become used to the cold since his first Marcher winter, but he couldn’t help a small shiver as he closed the door behind him, his breath coming out in a white plume every time he exhaled.

Whatever was happening in Lowtown at this time better be worth it.

Isabela had managed to persuade him to come to this Ferelden affair in the slums. Apparently it happened every year, but this was the biggest it had been since the Blight. She mentioned something about old Ferelden customs outside of the Chantry and how they would celebrate with song and dance and wine. The latter caught his attention, as it always did, and he reluctantly agreed, only if to get her to stop pestering him.

It was a long walk to Lowtown, but he knew several shortcuts that took him through rundown alleys where only the poorest lived, mostly refugees. There was a buzz in the air; children were being hoisted on shoulders and people were talking loudly as they bumped shoulders, making their way slowly towards the heart of the slums. This was certainly a change from the dismal mood they normally carried, he thought as he followed them. Perhaps this would be an interesting affair after all.

The crowd was the greatest in the square just outside Gamlen’s house. Refugees mingled with Marchers, with the odd Alienage elf seen here and there, accepted without any remark. Children were running around as their parents spoke, the hum of conversation punctuated by a lively group of musicians. A small crowd had begun to dance, much to his horror, and he stepped aside to avoid being dragged into the throng. But in his clumsiness, he bumped into somebody.

“Ah, there you are!” Isabela wrapped an arm around his shoulders, a bottle swinging in her free hand. She smelled very strongly of wine, and he wrinkled his nose at her. “Oh don’t be such a sourpuss."

“You smell like a wine-cellar.”  
  
“Hush now,” she said with a laugh. “We’re so glad you could make it. _Some_ of us more than others.”  
  
She motioned to a clearing in the crowd, and his heart leapt to his throat as he caught sight of Hawke speaking to a group of refugees. Gone were her usual leathers and chain mail; she now wore a loose-fitting robe of homespun wool, fastened at the waist with a belt and dyed in vibrant shades of red and orange, making her look as if she were a tongue of flame among the more mutely-clad crowd. Her hair was braided in a loop around her head, with winter flowers of a soft pink delicately woven in-between.

_She was stunning._

Fenris realized he was practically gawking, and he turned back to a smirking Isabela, his cheeks now warm despite the chill.

“You knew she would be here.”  
  
“Don’t be such a spoilsport. Here,” she shoved the bottle into his hands. “Down this and go kiss her senseless. It’ll make all of us rest a little easy.”  
  
Before he could say anything else, she had spun away with a wave, dragging a hapless Ferelden into the throng of dancers. Grumbling to himself, he took a long drink from the bottle, before setting it down on a barrel, walking towards her slowly. 

She noticed him before he could say anything, her eyes lighting up in a way that made his heart leap to his throat. The group she was speaking to was beginning to disperse, leaving just the two of them.

“Fenris! You made it,” she said, surprising him with the warmth in her voice. She was normally reserved, almost to a fault even, and he wondered if the flush in her cheeks had anything to do with her current behavior.

“Isabela can be incredibly persuasive.” He looked around at the steadily growing crowd before turning back to her. “What is this for, exactly? I have not heard of such a celebration in the past.”

“It’s a Ferelden custom of sorts. Every midwinter, on the longest night of the year, we remember those that have left us and celebrate the year that has passed. It’s not really religious, but we keep with it.” She looked at the crowd with fondness in her eyes. “It reminds us of home." 

“This is the first year the refugees feel like they have cause to celebrate. Most of them now have jobs and have managed to earn enough coin to support their families. All the food and wine here was bought through a communal fund, to pay back those that helped them get on their feet. Lirene and those helping her are honored guests today.”

“As are you, Hawke.” Aveline had joined them as well, and Fenris noted that she too had changed out of her armor. Instead, she wore leggings and a simple brown tunic that left her freckled arms bare. “The refugees will never forget how you helped them with Hubert and the Bone Pit. Some of them owe you their lives, not just their livelihood.”

“I just cleared out a cave and pressed Hubert over a little coin. Not a massive gesture.”  
  
“You say that as if it were as easy as wiping nug-shit off your boots.” Varric had also appeared, arms folded and an exasperated look on his face. “Honestly Hawke, if you were any more modest, I’d actually have to cut it out of my book because nobody’d actually _believe_ it.”

Before she could respond, the crowd suddenly grew silent. The musicians had begun to play a somber tune around a small group of refugees, most of them with flowers and candles in hand.

“It’s time,” Hawke said, her voice soft. Aveline turned to her and the two women shared a glance.  
  
“Shall we?”

They began to walk towards the small group just as Varric also excused himself, leaving Fenris alone to observe the proceedings.

There was already a pile of flowers in a corner of the square, surrounding a carved wooden statue of Andraste, and Hawke was leading Aveline to it. It was common knowledge among their group that Aveline had lost her husband to the Blight, and that she still mourned him in her own way. Today, they were allowed to see it as she lit a small candle, bringing it close to her lips as she whispered something, a prayer perhaps, into the flames. Then, seconds later, she set it down among the dozens of others that surrounded the flowers; a makeshift altar for the ones lost to time.

Hawke had two candles of her own. She waved a hand over them and the flames leapt out of her fingers, catching on the wicks easily. One for Malcolm, one for Bethany, he thought silently as she too placed them down on the ground, next to the candle for Aveline’s husband. The two women had seen their share of loss; it was no wonder they held on to each other when there was little else left.

He watched as Hawke pulled Aveline into a hug, the taller warrior practically dwarfing her small frame. Fenris averted his gaze then; it seemed like he was intruding on a private moment despite being surrounded by dozens of others. Grabbing a bottle of wine from a pile in the corner, he took a large gulp as he set off to look for Varric and Isabela.

And there they were; the pirate perched atop a barrel while Varric sat cross-legged on the ground with a small crowd of both humans and elves. It looked like the dwarf was in the middle of one of his tall tales, waving his hands about as the crowd gasped, clearly enraptured. 

“… and the giant rock wraith raised arms that crackled with electricity, letting out a mighty roar. We were this close,” he holds up two fingers, barely an inch apart, “from getting smashed up for good, when Hawke raised her staff and just _slammed_ it to the ground. Boom. The cave ceiling crumbled and fell right onto the demon.”

The crowd began to whoop and cheer as Fenris joined them, shaking his head at Varric.

“That wasn’t how it happened,” he said drily. Isabela made a face at him.  
  
“Why _hello_ , Broody,” Varric chuckled, clinking his tankard to Fenris’ bottle.  
  
“The ceiling didn’t fall on the demon. Its energy had already been weakened by our attacks and Hawke simply caused it to disintegrate with her magic. I do not think even Hawke has the ability to make entire cave ceilings crash down on our adversaries.”  
  
“Yeah yeah, well, that doesn’t make a good story, does it?” The crowd had begun to disperse as they spoke, and Varric stood himself up to better speak with Fenris. “They don’t want to hear the truth. They want to hear about the danger, the mystery. The _romance_.” He waggled his eyebrows at Fenris.

“Speaking of romance, how’s it going?” Varric elbowed him with a sly look in his eyes. Isabela snorted loudly from her barrel and it was all he could do to not punch the both of them. His fingers curled tightly at his side as he felt the warmth creep up his neck once more.  
  
“I don’t… I refuse to speak of it.”  
  
“Ooooh, the grumpy elf has _feelings_.”

“Isabela, I swear I will come over there and…”  
  
But whatever he was about to say next was drowned out by a loud cheer. The three of them turned around only to see that the crowd had now formed a circle around a smaller group. The music had picked up, the fiddle scraping a lively tune as the drums matched its pace, the beat echoing in Fenris’ chest. 

The dancers in the center of the crowd had paired up and begun to step along, cheering and laughing as some stumbled or tripped over each other. Somebody started clapping along, and eventually everybody joined in, almost drowning out the music itself. It was uncoordinated, unpracticed, but completely and utterly invigorating.

Dances in the Imperium were strict, formal events, where magisters forged, strengthened or broke alliances. Slaves such as himself were paraded for the world to see, status symbols of their masters’ power. Danarius had taken him to many such events, making him stand by his side in nothing but leggings and a shackle around his throat, his marking bare for the world to see. It was humiliating to say the least, and he hence viewed any dances with disdain for the memories they resurfaced.

But this… this was different. The refugees, the Fereldens, danced to their own rhythm, more often than not completely separate from that of the drums. Some flailed their arms, others jumped up and down, many hoisted their children high and followed their pattering steps. It was chaotic, but Fenris couldn’t help but tap his foot along with a smile.

Soon enough, Isabela had pulled Varric into the crowd, much to his very loud disapproval, and he watched with a bemused expression as they disappeared among the dancers. His eyes found Aveline next; the guard-captain was attempting to teach Donnic the steps, and failing miserably. Eventually, he just grabbed her at the waist and spun her around, and Fenris saw her laugh, truly _laugh_ , for the first time. The blood mage, Merrill, was spinning a tiny elven girl on her toes as another child tugged at her cloak, and the abomination stood by the shadows, watching the crowd with a small smile on his face. He met Fenris’ eye briefly and nodded in greeting.

It was not difficult to find Hawke in the throng; her fiery robes flared outwards as she spun around, stepping effortlessly in time to the music. She now danced with her uncle, who could not match her steps with the same grace she managed, but instead held tight to her hands as they stumbled into half a dozen people at a time. Gamlen actually looked happy tonight, though that could be due to the alcohol, and he laughed freely when he almost tripped over a group of children, scattering them back to their parents.

She met his eyes, and he wondered if she could see the wanting in them. The wine had relaxed his guard more than he’d liked, but he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. As if pulled by an invisible thread, he walked slowly towards the crowd of dancers just as she made her way towards him. Once they were within speaking distance, she smiled at him.

“Dance with me.” 

“What?” he sputtered, and she laughed.

“Dance. With me.” She held out a hand, her eyes bright.

“I do not know how.”  
  
“I’ll show you.” And with that, she took his hand and led him into the crowd.

He could barely feel her skin against his gauntlets, but his heart was beating as fast as the drums at the sight of their entwined fingers. Before the nerves could get the better of him, she stopped and leaned towards him, ignoring the people and noise practically pressing against the both of them.  
  
“Put your hand on my waist.”  
  
He nearly choked a reply, but she took his hand and rested it on her hip, the gauntlets scraping against her belt gently as he found his bearings. She clasped his free hand in hers and rested her other hand on his shoulder.

They were standing so close that for Fenris, the rest of the world had begun to melt away, leaving only the music and the smile in Hawke’s eyes as she guided him through the steps. The beat had slowed slightly, allowing him to learn, though the shift of her muscles under her robe was incredibly distracting. 

But then the music picked up again and he was swept up in a whirl of shouts and bodies, stepping and stumbling. He realized he had lost Hawke and he felt panic rise in him until he felt a hand in his, pulling gently, and he had no choice but to follow. It led him through the mass of bodies, nudging and bumping a line through them until he was finally free of them, coming face to face with Hawke herself.

They were alone, having exited the crowd of dancers into the darkness of an alleyway. Her hands were still warm in his own as she pulled him into the shadows, giggling as he nearly tripped over a set of stairs. Once he had righted himself, he focused instead on how the starlight danced in her eyes, the soft curve of her lips as she watched him fumble.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, unable to help himself.  

The flush on her cheeks deepened, and she looked away from him, her fingers brushing the ridges of his knuckles.  
  
“I’m not quite.”

The wine was making him reckless; he didn’t even stop himself from blurting out exactly what he thought.

“How can you say that? You’re brave and kind and you do so much for others, some that do not even deserve it. Not many can bring themselves to do the same."

“You flatter me,” she said softly, looking at him once more with those intoxicating eyes, and his mind screamed at him to _stop_ , to walk away now before he did something he would regret, but the wine and the rush in his head made him ignore his better judgment. 

Instead, he leaned in towards her, close enough to smell her perfume, the heady spice and sweetness drawing him deeper into her. Letting his eyes close, he brushed his nose against hers, feeling her fingers curl at the base of his neck, their lips inches apart… 

“EEEEYYYYYYYYYYY HAWKE!” 

They parted in shock as they turned to a very drunk Jansen, who had stumbled away from the party and was now slouched against the wall, bottle in hand.

“Gotta thank ya again for helpin’ ush out in the Bone Pit! Hubert’sh a righ’ ol’ prick he is.” And with a final hiccup, he slumped to the ground, the bottle rolling away as he began to snore.

Hawke sighed, her hand still on his chest. He shook his head, trying to calm the racing beat of his heart as he spoke.

“Perhaps we should continue this some other time?”

She sighed and pursed her lips. “Perhaps we should.”  
  
With great reluctance, he removed his hands from her waist and stepped away from her. She looked back at him, her lips parted as if to say something, but he shook his head.

“Goodnight Hawke.”

She smiled at him once more, her eyes almost failing to hide the emotion within them.

“Goodnight, Fenris.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said my uploads would be sporadic? Well, I uploaded the last chapter thinking I'd only start the next one in a week or so... and promptly wrote 1300+ words the same night. Ah well. 
> 
> This fic was very much influenced by an incredible little oneshot by elfgirl931 on tumblr (link: http://elfgirl931.tumblr.com/post/125515846610/moth-meet-candle); I couldn't stop thinking about it for days after. The push to write this, on the other hand, came from listening to Alasdair Fraser and Natalie Haas' incredible pieces on loop.
> 
> This also ended up becoming a lot longer than I thought it would, but the words wouldn't stop coming. So yeah, I hope you guys like it. I really enjoyed writing this chapter! 
> 
> P.S. For those who are interested, I'm putting some links to the music that inspired this because I am a huge nerd. :o)
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BhBT0V5V5Fg  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5JQHuzKQZwQ  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jlXiOqK3EdY  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vG-mvGg-Vhk


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

Hawke sat by the edge of her bed, not caring that her clothes were on the floor, that the sky was brightening and that Oranna would walk in at any time to rouse her for the day. She was frozen to the spot, her fingers limp in her lap; she couldn’t even bring herself to rest her head in her hands because she was so tired.

Tired of people leaving her.

The passion of the night before - his lips on hers, fingers tearing at armor and clothing until they finally found skin, the feeling of his bare fingers around her waist, her back, tracing down her spine in an almost feather-like gentleness that made her gasp against him - it all seemed like a dream now. She allowed her fingers to rise, to trace the path his lips had taken down her neck, her chest, and despite herself, the warmth started to creep into her stomach. All the months spent daydreaming, stealing glances from across the Hanged Man, from doubting that he could even think about her that way… it had all led to this, to him arched over her, her own hands tightening around his hips as they crashed into hers again and again and again, as if his body and her name on his lips were the only solid things in this world.

And yet, there were moments when he would hesitate, pull back even, as a darkness crossed his eyes. The lyrium in his skin would also flare suddenly, and he’d hiss as if struck, but when she asked him if he was alright, he shook his head and pressed his lips harder against hers. She wrote it down to pain; he had mentioned before that his tattoos were sensitive to touch, and so she was especially careful with her hands.

But it was not, he told her later, it was the abrupt return of his past life, the memories unexpectedly resurfacing like a piece of driftwood from the ocean shore. The tired slump of his shoulders and the fact he could not meet her eyes made her heart lurch, dread crawling into her throat as he spoke. She had tried to reach out to him, pleaded that they could work things out, but he still pushed her away. Said that he could not deal with the overwhelming emotions, that it was all too much.

So he walked away. And she was alone once more. 

It hurt. Her chest felt as if somebody had stabbed it with a branding iron, the ache tightening around her heart and threatening to choke her. It was different from when Bethany died and Carver left – she had burned with grief and anger then. But this… this was raw and tender, truly like an open wound. It hurt to even think of him, of his eyes, his voice, his skin against hers. She had given him everything, her body, her heart, and yet he had walked away. Perhaps she _was_ angry, but when she tried to let it consume her, it fizzled into a dull acceptance.

He was hurting as well, maybe even more than she could comprehend, and the only way he could fathom confronting it was by himself. Not wanting to drag her into the mess that was his inner turmoil, even though she would want nothing more than to help ease his burden. It was just the way he was.

_Fenris._

The sun had risen in earnest now, casting bright rays against her damp cheeks. She could hear the mansion coming to life – Bodhan’s heavy steps pacing the front hall as he readied her breakfast, and Sandal’s bright laughter at something or other. Beyond the windows, Hightown was also awakening as the rhythmic clanking of the guard patrol’s amour mingled with the soft hum of the crowd. She sighed, long and heavy, breaking the stillness of her body.  

Before Oranna could enter and see her in such a sorry state, she pulled on her robe and brushed away the tears that escaped her. No, she would have to be strong. This was not the first time somebody had left her. The images of Bethany, dried blood at the corner of her mouth, but otherwise looked for all of the world as if simply asleep, and of Carver, tall and full of rage, the burning sword proud on his chest, were seared into her mind. She had survived before, and she would survive again.

She would carry on.

* 

Fenris stormed back into his mansion, throwing the doors open with enough force to shake them on their hinges. His hands were in his hair, curling tightly as he tried not to scream, but the memories kept flashing in his mind, as clear and biting as a blade against flesh. 

_A smaller hand clasped in his._

_Bubbling laughter._

_The smell of hot stew._

_Kind green eyes._

_Hawke’s lips against his._

The last image only served to aggravate him further, and he grabbed and smashed a vase against the wall with a yell. A yell that did not cease, not until he was on his knees, fingers curled in the dusty carpet, and he had no more voice left in him.

All he could see now was the pain in her eyes when he turned away. Pain that he himself had caused, when all he wanted to do was just the opposite. But he couldn’t, he told himself despite the hot tears falling into the carpet, he was a broken shell filled with hate and revenge against ghosts that haunted him with every step he took. He couldn’t be what she needed him to be. He wasn’t who he needed _himself_ to be.

And yet, what was this ache in his chest, as if his heart itself were bruised and hurting? Was this what it was like to care for another? He had cared for the Fog Warriors, but they had never made him feel so alive, so full of potential to be more. More than just a silent blade, more than a runaway slave. She looked at him like he was something extraordinary, and it burned so bright in her smile as he kissed her, their bodies tangled together in her bed. The feelings she evoked in him were raw and tender, so incredibly fragile, which made the pain a hundred times worse.  

It tore at him, like jagged teeth at his throat, like phantom fingers around his heart, _twisting._

All he wanted was to be happy, just for a little while. But in his stupidity, his foolishness, he had caused more pain for them both. And now, what was left? What could be left after that? She would not want to see him again, not after what he had done. His mind turned to leaving Kirkwall, but the very thought of never seeing her again almost made him choke. That would be far worse.

He was so immersed in his agony that he barely heard the scraping at the mansion’s front door, the soft approaching footfalls. Only when she was right in front of him did he register the familiar breathing of the last person he could have expected. Well, second-to-last person. 

The mabari stood in front of him, holding something in its mouth as she watched him with dark, almost understanding eyes. It took him a while to recognize her, even longer for him to shift position so he was sitting upright and able to look at her directly. Words had abandoned him, so he stared at her dumbly until she huffed and dropped the thing she was carrying onto his lap.

In the dim of the candle-light, he could barely make out the red of the cloth, but as he held it close, brought it to his nose to breathe in the scent, heavy and warm, he knew who it belonged to.

“Did she…” he asked, his voice raw from screaming, and the dog shook her great head. With a soft _boof_ , she licked his hand and bounded off, leaving him alone in the darkened hall with the scrap of cloth.

It was the cloth she would use to tie her hair back, on days when her hair was not in its usual braids. His eyes were often drawn to it as they trekked through the mountains or the coast, and he would be lying if he weren’t just a little jealous of its place at the nape of her neck, where his own fingers ached to touch.

Why did the mabari bring this to him?

For a long while, he held the cloth in his fingers, bringing it to his nose occasionally as his mind calmed down. Until finally, with all the care in the world, he wrapped the cloth around his wrist, tying it tightly around the cool metal of his gauntlet.

They would all know where it came from; Hawke wore the cloth everywhere over the last few years, and he was bound to be teased for it, especially by Varric and Isabela. But he hoped that _she_ would understand its significance. That he would remain by her side despite the night before, that he would always be by her side. And after this was all over, once Danarius was dead and he was truly free from his past, he would return to her. If she would have him.

Red against silver. A promise he would gladly keep.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a while. I've been so tense over my exams that I couldn't bring myself to write, especially for something as important to me as this fic. But now I'm back and even more upset over these two than I normally am. Which explains the agony of this chapter. It was really fun to write though, in that it made me hurt in the best way possible. 
> 
> Again thank you so much for reading. I love you all. 
> 
> P.S. For interested parties, this is my tag for these two --> http://quitefair.tumblr.com/tagged/otp:-i-am-yours  
> You are welcome to join me in my agony.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leandra Amell is missing and Varric worries about his friend.

Leandra Amell was missing.

These were the words that tumbled out of Bodhan’s mouth barely an hour ago. Words that Varric didn’t think he’d hear on a quiet afternoon, just as he was poring over a letter from the Merchant’s Guild. Of course, the papers were abandoned as he rushed out of the Hanged Man, slinging Bianca across his shoulders as he followed the steward to the Hawke Estate.

They had met Merrill and Isabela along the way, and both their faces shifted into the worry he was sure was on his own as well when they heard what had happened. Anders was on his way from Darktown and Aveline was already with Hawke, Bodhan added breathlessly. There were talks of a search party being formed – nobody had seen Leandra since last night, and she could be anywhere. Merrill was speaking to Isabela about searching Lowtown, and Rivaini was already listing down places in the Docks. Varric was thinking about what Bodhan had said just after they had left the Hanged Man. Something about white lilies.

He had been there three years ago when Hawke had spoken to Emeric. It was one of those things that stayed with you, even years later. Even if you weren’t a storyteller like Varric was. Blood magic and a severed hand? It still made him shudder. They had thought that the fiasco with the missing women would have ended with the death of DuPuis, but now? The whole thing left a sourness in his mouth.

It was the reason Bodhan ran to him first; the steward went through all of Hawke’s letters, and Varric knew that she confided a lot in him, especially on difficult days. She had often joked about her two dwarves, how she couldn’t live without them, and now Varric wondered at the truth of her words.

Now he stood in a packed Lowtown square, the sweltering summer heat causing sweat to trickle down the back of his neck, making his shirt stick uncomfortably to his back. The crowd was at its height now, what with Fereldens returning home from the quarries and farms in the countryside, which meant that all that he could see were backs and legs. Typical, he grunted to himself after standing on a barrel for the better part of half an hour, craning his neck as he searched the crowd. 

He had spent the better part of the evening combing the streets of Darktown for Leandra, though with no luck. He bumped into Anders a number of times, and he too shrugged when he hailed him. After a couple of unfruitful hours, he trekked back up to the upper city, hoping that the others were luckier than he was. So far, he hadn’t seen either Merrill or Isabela, though he noticed a fair number of patrolling guardsmen out of the corner of his eye. Aveline must have sent them, he thought.

As he looked around, he suddenly remembered that this was the same square that just months ago was filled with song and dance and light. The very square that the Ferelden winter solstice celebration was. It There was barely a trace of the festivities left, but he would always associate this square with that night.

Hawke had been happy then. 

“Varric?” An all too familiar voice picked up behind him, and it was all he could do to not grumble.  
  
“Thought you were still at Ostwick.”  
  
“The mercenaries did not require me beyond last week.” Fenris slung his pack across his shoulders and fell in stride with Varric. “Though I wonder what you’re doing out in Lowtown alone.”  
  
“Leandra Amell’s missing,” he said, a little blunter than he would’ve ordinarily, but he watched the elf’s face, how it turned to him sharply, worry crinkling at the edges of those intense green eyes.  
  
_“What?”_  
  
“Yeah.” Varric wiped the sweat from his forehead. “A whole day now. We’ve looked everywhere, but nobody’s caught sight of her.” 

The elf scratched the back of his neck, and as he did so, Varric noticed a flash of red at his wrist.  
  
“How… how is Hawke?”  
  
“How do you think she is?” Varric grunted, turning away from Fenris to look down a darkened alleyway. Rats, rotting vegetables, but not a single person in sight. “I didn’t have the chance to speak to her earlier. She’s tense, but still holding together.” A pause, before he added, “Gamlen said something about white lilies.”

Fenris stiffened.

“Blondie and I have stripped Darktown bare, and Merrill and Isabela have done the same here in Lowtown and the Docks. Aveline has the guard all over.” The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the square. “We’d better head back up to the estate, see what everybody’s found.”

“I’ll join you.”

The trip back to Hightown was made in silence. Varric would have made small talk but deep down, he was still angry at what the elf had done to Hawke. Fenris was his friend too, but he still remembered Hawke’s eyes the first time they’d spoken after the incident. How broken they seemed. He kept his silence, letting the elf walk a step behind him. 

The doors to the estate were thrown open, and Varric could hear the crowd from the square outside. Without looking to see if Fenris was following, he stepped inside into the din. 

Most of them had returned. Merrill was sitting by the fire, stroking Hawke’s mabari’s head as she spoke with Isabela. Oranna was carrying a tray of steaming mugs, and Anders and Aveline stood around Hawke, who had her back to Varric as she leaned over her writing desk. Her hair was loose, curling gently at the nape of her neck, and she was clad in her leathers and mail, staff slung across her back.

A bouquet of wilting white lilies lay across Sandal’s crafting table.

“… and Lowtown was too full of people. I couldn’t see anything past all those shoulders.” Merrill was speaking to Hawke now, and the other woman’s shoulders sagged just slightly at her words.

“Nothing at the Docks either,” Isabela added, worry creasing even her forehead. “Didn’t search the Qunari compound, but I hardly think she’d be there. I asked one of the guards anyway, and he was adamant that no human had passed through the gates in the last week.”  
  
A sigh escaped Hawke, soft enough that Varric nearly missed it. “Bodhan mentioned that it would be better to search at night when there are fewer people out.” She turned to Aveline then, who’s hands were gripped tight around the pommel of her sword. “We could split up once more and comb the streets.”

“Gamlen still hasn’t returned either. Perhaps he’s found something we haven’t.” Anders noticed Varric and Fenris and nodded at them. “Any luck?”  
  
“No more than you.” He shook his head at Hawke when she looked at him, though her gaze didn’t linger on him long.

The look she gave Fenris was… it was something. Hurt, anger and something else burned just beyond the surface of her eyes, though she kept silent as she nodded at him. Varric didn’t dare turn to the elf; it was uncomfortable enough as it was. 

“I bumped into him in Lowtown on my way back here.” He only spoke to diffuse the thickening tension, since nobody else seemed to be brave enough to do so. Anders was suddenly very interested in the wall tapestries, Aveline was looking at the floor and Merrill continued to stroke the mabari’s head. Only Isabela made eye contact with Varric, and she shook her head in exasperation.

Hawke finally broke her stare and turned towards her writing desk. Aveline let out a breath and joined her, followed swiftly by Anders. Only now did Varric dare to turn towards Fenris, noticing how he clenched his fists tight at his sides. His hair was in his eyes, and the shadows played across his face, hiding whatever he was currently feeling.

Leaving the elf, Varric made his way to the fireplace, but not before Isabela dragged him to the side.  
  
“I didn’t think he’d be back so soon,” she hissed in his ear as she glanced back at Fenris. “He told me he’d be away at least until early autumn.”

“You know these mercs.” Varric rubbed the back of his neck. _Maker_ , he was exhausted. “They’re fickle when it comes to hiring outside help. Besides, I wouldn’t want to have been the one to tell him Hawke was in trouble when he wasn’t around.” 

“That’s true,” Isabela sighed, running a hand through her hair. After a pause, she added, “They’re hopeless.”  
  
“They still care for each other,” Merrill piped up, though in a merciful undertone. She motioned to the people in question; Hawke staring at the wall and Fenris stalking the shadows of the antechamber. “You can see it in their eyes.” 

“That’s the problem, kitten,” Isabela said. “They’re being such idiots over the whole thing.”  
  
“It was Fenris that left her,” Varric said sharply. “Should’ve seen how torn up she was.”  
  
“We’re not having this conversation again,” Isabela hissed, turning to glare at him. “Fenris may be an ass when it comes to the things he’s dealing with, but he is dealing with a lot. People here seem to forget that it isn’t just Hawke that has problems.”  
  
Varric pinched the bridge of his nose as he waved his free hand in Isabela’s direction. “Okay, okay I’m sorry. It’s just… it’s taxing on all of us.”  
  
Sighing once more, Isabela nodded. Before she could continue however, Hawke had turned towards them.

“We have a plan. I’ll take a small team to meet Gamlen in Lowtown. The others will scatter and comb the rest of the city. Gandhari will join you this time.” The mabari stood up and looked at her master with serious eyes.

“I’m coming with you,” Varric piped up quickly. She was already in such a fragile state, and he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but her side. Maker knows she’d need all the support she could get.  
  
“As am I,” Aveline added, which made Varric’s relief grow. If there was one person that could get through to Hawke, help her calm down, it was the guard captain. The others had also gathered around them, even Fenris, though he held back. Hawke’s eyes met each of theirs as she contemplated the final member of her party.

She was about to speak, to name her choice, but stopped abruptly. Varric noticed how her eyes darted to Fenris, to the red cloth at his wrist, noticeable only because he had run his fingers through his hair. It took the elf a while to realize what was happened, and when he did, he looked back at her with a painful sort of gaze. It was pleading, Varric realized. Desperate. As if…

Wait.

Hawke’s unbound hair. The familiarity of the fabric. It was hers, he was wearing her strip of red cloth, the one that had gone missing all those months ago. Isabela probably realized this at the same time because he felt a sharp jab in his back. The significance of it… he couldn’t put it to words, but neither could he describe the silent exchange between Hawke and Fenris now.

The mabari let out a loud bark, and the spell was broken.

“We should be going,” Hawke said abruptly, brushing past them and making her way towards the door. As she rested her hand on the wood, she looked back at Fenris, and her gaze softened slightly. Again, her eyes darted to the cloth, as if unable to believe that it was there, and he self-consciously rubbed a hand over said wrist, all the while unable to tear his eyes from hers.

Pushing the door open, she nodded at the elf.

Fenris’ eyes were hopeful now as he fell behind Varric, his soft footfalls masked by the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been sitting in my WIP folder for the better part of a month, in pretty much its final form. I wanted to write more for this, continuing up to how this particular quest ends, but when I was editing it I thought that this was a good place to end it. 
> 
> It's not one of my finest bits of work, but if I have to stare at it any longer I don't think I'll move anywhere beyond it. So bear with me guys.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All that remains is ash and embers.

Leandra Amell was dead.

She was dead long before they found her, Aveline thought, watching Varric set the makeshift pyre alight. Whatever it was that they had encountered in this cellar, the mismatched set of limbs with Leandra’s head sewn crudely on may have spoken with her voice, her thoughts, but it was a monster. The creation of a madman whose body was now tossed to the side, forgotten. Aveline took great pleasure in running her sword clean through his body, even as one of Varric’s arrows found its mark in his forehead, ripping through flesh and bone and brain.

But killing the mage couldn’t bring her back. The magic holding her together dissolved swiftly, and it wasn’t long before she was limp in Hawke’s arms, her hoarse handful of words to her daughter fading into the stale air. Aveline watched as her friend’s shoulders slumped, curving around her mother’s body as if still trying to protect her, as if she could still save her.

Oh, Hawke. 

Varric walked silently to Hawke’s side and knelt beside her.

“We can’t stay here, Indra,” he said softly. Varric never used Hawke’s given name, not even in private.

“But mother…” Her voice broke on the offending word, and something inside Aveline seemed to break as well. Varric sighed and squeezed Hawke’s shoulder.

“We can’t bring her above ground.” Aveline joined them then, kneeling on Hawke’s other side. “People won’t look too kindly to the sight, even with the guard captain by your side. There will be questions about what happened…” She trailed off as she looked at Leandra’s body, how the skin had been stitched together, mutilated flesh and dried blood. It was enough to make even the strongest stomach turn.

“But we can’t just leave here here.” Hawke’s voice quivered.

“We could build a pyre.” It was the first time Fenris had spoken since they entered the hideaway. Aveline turned to look at him, how he was shifting from one foot to another, a gauntlet scraping at the red cloth around his wrist. “The Fog Warriors burned their dead when they were unable to waste time digging a grave.”

“The soldiers burned our dead in Ostagar as well.” Aveline nodded and looked to Hawke. “That way, they darkspawn couldn’t get to them.”

When Hawke didn’t respond, Aveline sighed and said in a whisper.  
  
“It’s what I would have done for Wesley if we had the time.”

There was a long pause after that; Hawke cradling her mother’s body, Varric and Aveline silent by her side.

“Alright.” Hawke’s voice was soft, barely audible in the still air. Varric nodded slowly, squeezing Hawke’s shoulder once more.

They built the pyre quickly, using whatever wood and cloth they could find in the hideaway. Once it was done, Aveline helped Hawke place Leandra’s body on top. Then Varric set it alight.

Aveline watched now as the growing flames licked the kindling, drawing closer and closer to the body. The white of the wedding dress was beginning to turn a dark brown, and the air began to fill with the smell of burning flesh. Aveline, Varric, and Fenris had to turn away and cover their noses, but Hawke stood motionless, watching as the flames consumed her mother’s body.

They knew that Hawke wouldn’t leave. So they waited by her side, arms over noses until the pyre burned itself out, watching as skin and flesh turned into blackened ash, crumbling into the glowing remnants of the burning wood.

It was Aveline that spoke first.

“It’s done, Hawke.” Aveline rested a hand on her friend’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “We should get back to the surface.” 

When Hawke didn’t respond, Varric nudged her arm. “Leandra’s gone, Indra. There’s nothing else for you here.”

Hawke stood there in silence for a while more, eyes still on the embers. Then finally, with a soft, quivering sigh, she nodded. Aveline took her hand in hers and led the way out of the cellar.

* 

The sky was a rosy pink when they returned to the estate. Hawke had not spoken a word since they left the docks, though she had allowed Aveline and Varric to wrap her in crushing hugs once they had emerged from the cellar. Fenris kept his distance, but Aveline knew he would have done the same, if, well, if circumstances were different. They trudged back to Hightown in silence after that, barely registering anything around them, their minds still on the horror they had witnessed earlier that night.

The doors of the estate were open, and Aveline could hear the murmur of voices from within. The rest must have returned and were waiting for them, she thought as the dread settled heavy into her stomach. Breaking the news to them wasn’t going to be easy, let alone explaining what had happened.

Anders, Merrill, and Isabela practically jumped to their feet when Aveline stepped into the hall. They looked like they were about to speak all at once, to ask where they had been or if they had had any luck in their search, but once they caught sight of the party that was now trickling into the room, once they noticed Hawke’s face, the dried tear tracks and bloodshot eyes, how the rest of their faces were somber and drawn, they instantly fell silent.

“Oranna?” Varric called out, and Aveline saw a figure appear at the top of the stairs.

“Yes, Master Tethras?”  
  
“Could you take care of Hawke for us? She’s been through a lot tonight. Get her something to eat and drink, if you can.”  
  
Oranna’s eyes grew wide as she caught sight of her mistress. “Right away, Master Tethras.”  
  
“Bring it to the library.” Varric took Hawke’s hand and led her through the door to their left, leaving Aveline and Fenris with the rest of their friends.

“What happened?” Isabela’s asked, eyes worried as she looked towards the door that Varric and Hawke had disappeared behind.

Aveline and Fenris looked at each other, lips pursed and brows furrowed. 

As they described the events of last night, they watched as their companions’ faces shifted into looks of horror. Merrill covered her face in her hands halfway through, and Anders and Isabela’s faces grew pale. Bodhan’s face was impassive, but Aveline noticed how his hands had curled into fists at his sides.

“Maker’s breath,” Anders said softly once they were done.  

“She’s gone to bed.” Varric had emerged from the library just then. “Barely ate anything. Oranna’s with her, but what she needs to do now is rest.”

Aveline nodded. “You lot better get going as well. Hawke needs her space.”

“We’ll take care of her,” Bodhan said. “I’ll send for you if she needs anything.”

Anders and Isabela looked like they were about to protest, but Varric made a shooing motion with his hands.  
  
“We’re not going to be of any help if we hang about here. Go. I’m leaving as well.”

The fact that Varric was leaving seemed to appease them, considering that he would normally stay by her side if anything was wrong. The dwarf had a tendency to hover around Hawke, especially when she was upset. Aveline knew he had the best of intentions, knew he was especially protective of their friend, but she knew that Hawke needed her space. And he was thankfully respecting that today.

Slowly, her friends trickled out of the mansion one by one, until only Aveline and Fenris remained. Bodhan had disappeared upstairs, presumably to check on Hawke, leaving the two of them in the hall by the fire.

The elf was leaning against a wall, surrounded by shadow. His eyes, Aveline noticed, were constantly drawn to the second floor; to the door they could just about see from where they stood.

Hawke’s room.

Aveline sighed and spoke, unable to help herself.

“You want to go see her, don’t you?”  
  
Fenris turned to her sharply. “What?”  
  
“You’ve been hovering since we left the docks.” And it was true; he hadn’t comforted her in the way that Varric and Aveline had, but had kept close to her, watched her with an inscrutable expression in his eyes when he thought they weren’t looking. He shifted uncomfortably now, but she pressed on.

“Look, I don’t know what happened between the two of you, and I like to keep it that way. But if there’s one person she would like to have by her side now, it’s you.”

Even through the shadows, she could see his eyes widen. She motioned her head towards the stairs.  
  
“Go up and see her Fenris.”  
  
He paused for a moment but then began walking quietly across the hall and up the stairs. Aveline watched as he disappeared into Hawke’s room before taking her leave.

Once she stepped outside, she paused, watching as the sky grew brighter above the rooftops of the Hightown mansions surrounding her. The morning birds were beginning to sound and the guard patrol was clanking its way across the courtyard and yet, she barely heard any of it, barely registered Brennan salute as they passed her by.

All she could see was a smoldering body. All she could smell was rotting flesh.  

Aveline sighed and began the long walk back to the Viscount’s keep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hi. I'm back. 
> 
> This chapter has been the most difficult to write. I've written like three different versions of it, only to abandon them and start completely from scratch. It's really not my best work, as you can see, but I wanted to get it out there. What comes after this is much more important, and somehow much easier to write. 
> 
> Let's hope the later chapters don't come almost six months after this one, eh?


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